


Outside His Profession

by shiphitsthefan, Sirenja



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Will, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Episode: s01e09 Trou Normand, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Medical Kink, Omega Hannibal, Orgasm Denial, Possessive Hannibal, Pre-Relationship, Prostate Milking, Sex Is Therapy And No One Is Surprised Except Maybe Will, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, and, takes place during a hand-wavy time period between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 01:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10294376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/pseuds/Sirenja
Summary: Hannibal pretends to hesitate, as if he has only now come up with the idea. “Do you need a hand?”For the first time since he entered Hannibal’s office, Will stills. “You can’t be serious.”“I’m always serious.” Hannibal allows himself to truly smile; he hopes it is disarming. “There are ways to bring you a measure of relief without allowing orgasm or permitting your knot to form. It would take the edge off long enough for you to make it home.”Will says nothing, but the gaze he fixes on Hannibal ishungry.Emphasizing each word, Hannibal repeats, “Do you need a hand?”To his delight, Will takes a deep breath, hands clutching the arms of his chair, and says, “I’d appreciate it, Doctor.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> In collaboration with the wonderful [Sirenja](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/pseuds/Sirenja/works), gif wizard extraordinaire. I'm so happy to finally get to work with you! Be sure to [check out the gifset that inspired this fic](http://sirenja-and-the-stag.tumblr.com/post/158396998643/outside-his-profession-by-shiphitsthefan). :D
> 
> Betaed by [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works); encouraged (and ordered) by the A/B/O Knitting Circle; previewed and flailed over by [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works). I love each and every one of you equally-wonderful people. <3

Though somewhat masked by half-rate aftershave and the sickly-sweet perfume of encephalital decay, the scent of pre-rut is unmistakable. Hannibal can smell it from the waiting room, the stench of hormones, the notes of grapefruit and cardamom wafting under the crack in the door and into his office. He closes his eyes to better savor it.

When Will opens the door precisely on time, Hannibal’s eyes are still shut as he gluts himself on Will’s scent. It’s impossible not to speculate what their fragrances might smell like when combined, when meshed together by sweat and heat.

The door clicks shut, and Hannibal looks at Will, at last. His cheeks are rosier than usual, skin flushed down his neck, more feverish than Hannibal expected. Will’s curls are damp, and his eyes bloodshot as they meet Hannibal’s own.

It would be so easy to tempt him. No challenge, whatsoever, really. Even simpler than it had been after his scrap with Budge, and Hannibal was a more than willing lure then, a distressed omega in search of comfort. Will had provided admirably.

Hannibal tilts his head, considering the alpha panting against his wall. Perhaps he should amend his plans. There must always be room for flexibility within one’s agenda, after all. Besides, Hannibal can’t deny how pleasing it had been to be cared for and tended to. He could hardly ask for a more suitable alpha, meek and malleable as he was.

For now, anyway.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, rising from behind his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Will nods shakily. “Dr. Lecter.” An even curter greeting than usual. As they sit to face each other--a position Hannibal has come to find sacrosanct--Will groans, one hand restless on his thigh, the other pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“Are you unwell?”

“I don’t know,” admits Will, and of course Will doesn’t take care to track his cycles. Or else, Will’s ruts are irregular, coming on with no warning. Either way, Hannibal intends to take advantage of it.

He leans forward, concerned. “Were you unaware of your impending rut?”

Will blinks at him, stares at him, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Is that...is that what...oh.”

“Oh?” Hannibal watches with interest as Will’s hips move of their own accord.

“It’s been coming on since--” Will tips his head back; a drop of sweat traces down his Adam’s apple, and Hannibal wonders what it tastes like, if it is as alkaline as the brain fever smells. “I walked into your office--not now, I mean. After you killed Tobias.”

“An unusual choice of words,” muses Hannibal. Will is deliciously intuitive, even unaware. “What was it about the moment that you found so enticing?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“He stank up the room,” Will explains, “and I’ve never wanted to mark territory before, you know, cover every inch with my scent. It disgusted me.” But the telltale bulge between Will’s legs tells a different story.

Hannibal smiles to himself. “Do I disgust you?”

“No, Doctor.” He sounds exasperated already. “My desires did. I felt wild. Out of control.”

“On the contrary,” says Hannibal. “Your control was excellent.” More softly--and is this, too, a deception, or does Will’s clumsy dominance bring out this side of him?--he adds, “I appreciated your attentiveness.”

Will swallows, eyes half-lidded, hands in fists on his thighs, clenching and unclenching. “I dislike seeing you injured.”

Hannibal knows he should respond likewise, but he so hates to lie. Will is beautiful when he suffers.

“I’m sorry for keeping our appointment in such a state,” Will says. The veins in his neck stand out, and Hannibal longs to keep time with his pulse.

“You should never apologize for the natural reactions of your body,” Hannibal reassures him. “Though I am concerned for your ability to drive home after our appointment.”

Will chuckles ruefully. “Do you have a closet I can just lock myself up in for the weekend?”

“I have a basement,” and Will’s smile and laugh are genuine now.

“You’re too kind, Doctor.”

Hannibal pretends to hesitate, as if he has only now come up with the idea. “Do you need a hand?”

For the first time since he entered Hannibal’s office, Will stills. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.” Hannibal allows himself to truly smile; he hopes it is disarming. “There are ways to bring you a measure of relief without allowing orgasm or permitting your knot to form. It would take the edge off long enough for you to make it home.”

Will says nothing, but the gaze he fixes on Hannibal is  _ hungry. _

Emphasizing each word, Hannibal repeats, “Do you need a hand?”

To his delight, Will takes a deep breath, hands clutching the arms of his chair, and says, “I’d appreciate it, Doctor.”

Hannibal stands up gracefully, and walks to the large cabinet with the same measured ease. He can feel Will’s eyes on him all the while. “Have you used the facilities recently?” he asks, then winces when Will snorts. “There’s no need for crudeness, Mr. Graham.”

A quick glance back at Will shows Hannibal that he now commands his full attention; all is, once again, as it should be.

“Now.” Hannibal closes the cabinet door and walks back with his old medical bag. “Have you, or haven’t you?”

Will squirms minutely in his seat, fingers pressing into the chair arms. “I have,” he replies timidly.

“Excellent. For this procedure--”

“Procedure?” Will’s breathing speeds up a bit, and Hannibal isn’t sure whether the word has unsettled or excited him. The helpless, barely-audible moan Will makes when Hannibal removes a pair of gloves and a jar of Vaseline from his bag needs no translation, however.

“Why, Mr. Graham.” Hannibal stands over him, looming, intoxicated by Will’s eager submission. “Are you feeling aroused?”

“You know that I am.” His voice is a low rumble, and Hannibal shifts, beginning to feel slick himself. It hardly matters. “Will that be a problem?”

“Only, potentially, for yourself.” Hannibal had intended to do this a little less clinically, but he’s perfectly happy to play along. “If you could scoot down in your chair, please. I will need clear and unimpeded access.”

The rut-scent grows stronger as he kneels in front of Will, whose legs are already splayed to either side. “What are you going to do, Dr. Lecter?”

“Tell me, Mr. Graham. Have you ever had a prostate massage?” Will shakes his head emphatically, and it doesn't surprise Hannibal; most alphas have never touched their own outside of a medical setting. “The technique is used to encourage the release of prostatic fluid,” says Hannibal. “It will not allow you to achieve orgasm, but should appease your hormones for a short time.”

“Enough time to get home to my toys,” Will mumbles.

Hannibal knows that particular loneliness all too well. He’s not sure why he’d never considered that Will might be forced to spend his ruts alone. Even though he secludes himself by choice, Hannibal’s heats are near unbearable.

But he says none of this.

“Will it hurt?”

Hannibal pauses, fingers poised at Will’s belt buckle. Avenues and options he hadn’t considered open up before him. He could make it hurt, yes, could make this darling boy howl and cry with pain, but the end result would be devastating for both of them. On the other hand, Hannibal could administer an intravenous shot of morphine, dulling Will’s senses, but that would hardly be any fun, at all.

“You may feel some initial discomfort,” says Hannibal, opting, this time, for the truth. “It should fade, or at least become more tolerable.”

“Not really important if it does. I’ve been wondering why my whole body ached for days now.”

Will lifts his hips for Hannibal to pull down his pants and underwear. It takes more resolve than Hannibal likes to keep himself from forgoing all pretense of an examination and simply pressing his face into Will’s groin. The rut-scent is heady now, thick and overwhelming. Worse still, Will’s sex is lovely, ripe for sketchbook and canvas, classic and obscene and divine and profane, though unfortunately cut.

“Do you often experience pain with your ruts?” Hannibal asks, allowing himself to run one fingertip up the underside of Will’s erect cock before taking back up his physician’s mantle. Will shudders, but Hannibal pays him no mind. He is nothing more than The Patient now.

“I honestly can’t remember. It’s been seven or eight years since the last one.”

“An unusual cycle, to be sure, though it does explain your pain.” Hannibal lets the first glove snap into place--needlessly dramatic, but Will’s unrestricted groan is more than worth the effort. “Are you like this at all of your physicals, Mr. Graham?”

“Like...like what?”

“Eager,” and Hannibal punctuates with the sound of the second glove.

He’s already unscrewed the lid to the jar by the time Will says, “No.”

“More of a difficult patient, then, I suppose.”

“Absolutely.” Hannibal looks up in time to see Will smile. His hair clings to his face, and he’s beginning to sweat through his shirt. The smell is _exquisite._

“I should have guessed, but I hope that you shall continue to be good for me.”

“I’ll try.” Will sounds so small, so much smaller than he should at this point, at the cusp of full-on rut. Hannibal wonders if it is the encephalitis interfering, or if this is simply where Will’s cycle brings him, and if Will might become more aggressive following the first orgasm, which isn’t completely unheard of. So many things to study about Will--and yes, Hannibal will have to rework his scheme entirely. Not even he is heartless enough to abandon a boy to the wolves.

Hannibal rubs the side of Will’s bare thigh in reassurance. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”

“If you could relax for me. Oh, and here.” Hannibal hands Will the Vaseline, as though it’s an afterthought. “I will need you to bring yourself as close to orgasm as possible without relieving yourself. It will cause your prostate to swell, which will make it easier to locate and perform the massage properly.”

Will hesitates before taking the jar with a shaking hand. Hannibal wants to watch him, but that would hardly be proper for a medical professional. Instead, he sets to his own task, holding Will’s cheeks apart long enough for him to find his hole, pleased to find it as blushed as the rest of him. Hannibal rubs and gently prods, taking much longer than he would during a typical exam, watching the muscle ease by degrees, like a patient succumbing to the effect of an anaesthetic.

_ What would Will look like in such a situation? Or drugged, perhaps--would he allow me to experiment? What all  _ would _ he let me do to him, were we mated? What would he join me in doing? What would he let me...take? _

“If you would please refrain from moving your hips,” says Hannibal. Will has already begun to lose himself to the rut, pumping up and into his fist, the slick sounds etching themselves note by note into Hannibal’s brain. He, too, is quickly becoming affected, his thoughts veering in unexpected directions.

“‘M sorry. It just... _ fuck, _ it feels good.”

“My finger inside you?”

“Like the man--the man in the ambulance,” Will tells him, “life in your fingers.”

Hannibal, fascinated, slips in a second.

“Doctor--oh fuck, Dr. Lecter--”

“Are you close to orgasm?”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me--”

“That’s enough,” says Hannibal. “Thank you, Mr. Graham. You may stop now.” The feral growl of frustration is innately satisfying. “When you feel you are able, it would be very beneficial for you to hold your penis upright.”

“What will that do?” Will asks through gritted teeth.

“Ideally, it will keep your semen from dripping on me,” Hannibal replies matter-of-factly. Will continues to curse the saints, and Hannibal grins, taking a moment to consider all of the implications and methods and places Will might currently be picturing his come on Hannibal. “I’m going to begin now.”

Will whines a little, but says, “Alright, Doctor.”

Hannibal has always found Will’s use of his title amusing, even flirtatious, at times. It has never affected him quite like it is now, however, his own hole damp with slick, his briefs beginning to stick to his ass.

Firmly but carefully, Hannibal begins to massage both sides of Will’s prostate--it’s typically a boring process, but the game they’ve set up for themselves has lent an element of carnality. Hannibal breathes deeply and tries to sink further into his role to distract himself from his own creeping arousal.

He is alarmed to discover that he cannot completely dissociate from the situation. A development to puzzle over later, to be sure.

Will quivers when he tries to take his own cock back up--”Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes?”

“Could you...would you hold it for me?”

To think Hannibal had set out to tempt Will. He’s quickly losing track of which of them is the more foolish party, but Hannibal obliges, anyway, using his free hand to hold Will’s cock up for him. It’s heavy within the circle of his fingers, full, hot. Hannibal tightens his grip and watches enrapt as Will tosses his head to the side, whimpering and needy.

“You required this desperately, Mr. Graham.” Hannibal hardly recognizes his own voice, deep and raspy. He continues to mercilessly rub the sides of Will’s prostate, pressure consistent and constant. “How very full you are. This may require more than one procedure.”

He stares Will down now, couldn’t stop looking if he wanted to, and he doesn’t, not when Will’s chest is heaving and his expression agonized, mouth parted and lips dry, more desperate and awestruck by the moment.

Hannibal’s keeping him. All to himself. Maybe forever. Not even Will can have himself back.

“Would you like that?” asks Hannibal. Will’s knot pulses, trying to inflate, but there’s no orgasm to force it to swell. “To keep a regular appointment for treatment?”

The first dribble of come emerges from the tip of Will’s cock, and Will blinks at it rapidly, helplessly, confused but--if the ever-strengthening scent of his rut is to be believed, and he’s  _ so _ close now, on the edge of bliss and further torment--enjoying himself so  _ very, very much. _

“Would you ever let me come?” His voice is breathy, nearly lost to the blood in Hannibal’s own ears.

“That would hardly be therapeutic, Mr. Graham.”

Will grins. “I’ve never been good with therap--oh, oh, that’s…” He grimaces, hands flexing where they lie on his stomach. “I think I need to piss.”

“A normal feeling during this process, I assure you. It will pass.” Another slow release of come, and Hannibal hands Will’s cock back to him, encourages him to hold it against his abdomen. Let Will think what he wants of it; Hannibal only wants to see him messy. “You will feel so much better when we finish here,” says Hannibal. “I imagine you feel a measure of humiliation, enjoying it as you are.”

“Yes,” Will admits, “a little.”

“To know that you are lying back and letting me force your body to release itself? To realize that I know your own body better than you do, yourself?”

Will slides further down in the chair, biting his lip, eyes glued to his own cock, watching it weep.

“Is this what you wanted, Mr. Graham?”

“Oh my God, Dr. Lecter,  _ yes.” _

“To be made physically distressed and uncomfortable?” But Will is lost to Hannibal now, mesmerized by the growing pool of his own come and no orgasm to accompany it. “Would you like me to do this more often? To manipulate you? To  _ milk _ you?”

Will nods quickly, and then his body goes limp--all save for his poor cock, still erect and neglected, empty. His hips twitch when Hannibal removes his fingers, and he lies sleepily still as Hannibal wipes him clean with his own pocket square, then rises, towering over him once more, gloves snapping off.

Hannibal waits a moment, then clarifies, “I will need verbal consent, Mr. Graham.”

“Yes,” says Will, swallowing, his eyes sliding closed. “Yes, I would like that.” He hums as Hannibal forgets himself and runs his fingers through Will’s hair. “Very much so.”

“Do you feel better?” Hannibal asks. “More control? Less pain?”

“‘M tired.”

“You had a great deal of prostatic fluid to flush out. I imagine you feel exhausted.”

Will laughs. “So much for helping me drive home,” he says, still laughing as Hannibal pulls him up from his chair and they wrestle his clothing back on together. “Don’t suppose you still have that basement handy? I think I’m still going to be useless this weekend, on the road or off.”

“Dear Will,” and Hannibal feels so immensely, tragically fond that he could choke. “I can think of any number of uses for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> [This is an excellent post about prostate milking](http://lazydomme.blogspot.com/2011/09/prostate-milking.html), which, contrary to popular belief, neither results in orgasm nor is the same as coming untouched. After you've learned about milking, take a gander at [the headline of this similar article](http://ezinearticles.com/?What-Is-Prostate-Milking-And-How-It-Makes-Life-Better&id=1061653) and die laughing like I did.
> 
> As always, kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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